


May It Be

by TheLostPocket



Category: Pellinor - Alison Croggon
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Self-Discovery, Separations, Wordcount: 100.000-150.000
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLostPocket/pseuds/TheLostPocket
Summary: After the attack at the Gwalhain Pass, Cadvan fears Maerad is killed. Now, he must decide his path and try to keep Edil-Amarandh from falling to the Darkness - whilst also facing down his own inner demons. What revelations lie in wait for the now solitary Bard of Lirigon? And what dangers?Set during The Riddle and spilling over into The Singing, from Cadvan's point of view.Utter Pellinor Nerd that I am, I made a Pinterest board to consolidate visual ideas and inspiration, which can be found here: https://pin.it/4jSVmAQ
Relationships: Cadvan of Lirigon/Maerad of Pellinor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to be finally posting this! It's been my major lockdown project and by far the longest fic i've ever attempted. As a first disclaimer, I have not actually read The Bone Queen (which seems silly since this fic is from Cadvan's POV) so if there are any inconsistencies with that book. . . that's why. This idea of Cadvan's inner mind is constructed entirely from the main Pellinor books. Maerad undergoes so much change in the three-month period of their separation, but i think it's very obvious that Cadvan does too so i wanted to explore that in further depth! So with no further ado. . . enjoy!

“I wouldn’t trade my solitude for a little love. For a lot of love, yes. But a lot of love is itself a kind of solitude.” – Ducle María Loynaz (trans. James O’Connor)

“Look out for a bay!” Cadvan called over his shoulder “There’s going to be a storm.” 

He couldn’t tell if Maerad heard him – the winds whipped his words away as soon as they were spoken and he was too cold to turn properly to see if she understood. The fog that had hampered their vision that morning was thinning in the wind, but that same wind brought with it spits of ice and grit, making Cadvan’s clothes stiff. Even the energy it took to look at the wall for a bay was exhausting, but he felt certain they could not be far from refuge. The bays spotted the pass with predictable regularity – only, now, it seemed they did not. The longer Maerad and Cadvan trudged down the miserable road, the stronger the wind came and the greater the doubt grew in Cadvan’s mind. They pressed on. The light was beginning to fall around them and still the wall was smooth and blank. The sleet that had been splattering them for most of the day shifted into little balls of ice, then large hailstones the size of pebbles, making Darsor and Imi skitter. Finally, Cadvan dismounted, signalling Maerad to do the same, and they continued battling forwards on foot. 

“If we make it to the next turn, we’ll have some shelter!” Cadvan shouted. Maerad, barely two feet from him, squinted then nodded, face scrunched up against the hail. Clumps of ice were caught in her black eyebrows and hair, which was whipping wildly around her head, as if it had a life of its own. For a moment, Maerad’s eyes met Cadvan’s and he felt a stab of worry. Here on the mountain’s flank, they were both directly exposed to the full force of the gale; if he couldn’t get them to somewhere more sheltered soon, they would freeze where they stood. With a muttered urge to Darsor, they pushed doggedly on. 

Suddenly, Cadvan’s head whipped up. Something was coming – something was here. 

As soon as he felt it, he saw it, as hazy and difficult to focus on as a stormdog and about three times as enormous. Its body seemed forged of ice and stone, and strange gloopy fire spewed from its mouth and eyes like cold lava. Although he had never seen one before, Cadvan knew instinctively what it was. 

“Iridugul!” he yelled back to Maerad “Arm yourself!” and, so saying, he hefted Arnost aloft. His words were drowned out by a great crash; the iridugul, too, had hefted its weapon, an immense club made of mountain-rock, and sent it smashing down near where Maerad and Cadvan stood. Cadvan flinched back – then stepped forwards. His lips moved, and a dome of white fire flared into life, surrounding him. A sensation like lightning shot through his veins and for a moment Cadvan felt not only unafraid but thrilled. _Try me_ , an inner voice taunted, _we shall see who wins out._

The iridugul raised his club; Cadvan raised his hands. When he next spoke, his voice reverberated within his own mind, amplified by the power of the Speech. 

“White creature of rock and ice,” he called “I know thee – Iridugul of the Northern Realms, servant to –” but he did not get to finish his incantation. The iridugul threw his club down again, with greater accuracy; it landed so close to Cadvan that Darsor reared, straining against the reins. Cadvan kept a tight hold of him and picked up the incantation again. His hands begun to burn with a bright silver light. At a word, the light spread up his arms, and then Arnost too was alight with white flame, and Cadvan spoke louder, power ringing in his ears. The iridugul seemed undaunted, letting fall the club yet again. This time, Cadvan did not flinch, did not falter, but spoke steadily, like one in a trance, and the club rebounded off his shield in a shower of blue-white sparks. Darsor screamed in defiance but Cadvan heard it only faintly, as if from far away. All he heard, all he saw and felt, had narrowed to just himself and the screaming iridugul blocking their path. He could feel every inch of his own skin, as though he were stood naked amidst the storm, or as if he were being lightly but not unpleasantly burned all over; he could feel the bubble of white fire encasing him, another layer of skin, just as sensitive but stronger; he could feel the fury of the iridugul slipping off the shield, trying and failing to catch hold; he could feel the hailstones ricocheting off it, too, a mere nuisance; and, above it all, like a great looming shadow, he could feel a malicious eye watching over them, gleeful and cold. 

The shield rippled, then was breached, and for a moment Cadvan felt as if someone had stepped inside his true skin; then a light hand touched his shoulder, and he knew it was just Maerad. Something scraped against his mental defences, glanced off, then scraped again, like claws digging into packed dirt. Cadvan winced. 

_What is it?_ Maerad’s voice dropped into his mind like a whisper. He could sense her confusion, her fear, and an underlying anxiety that he had not seen in her before. An image of a white bowl came to his mind; a channel of dark cracks spread across its surface, one fissure breaking into two, then those also multiplying, until the bowl seemed nothing but cracks held together only by some invisible force of will. He shook the image away. 

_A frost creature_ , he responded, _an iridugul. We are unlucky – or ambushed – I fancy the latter._

_So what can we do?_

_We can’t destroy it. So we have to escape it somehow. I don’t think you can sing a lullaby to this one_ , Cadvan added grimly. He felt Maerad bristle beside him, and once more something clawed against his mind. He flinched, and for a moment his concentration faltered. 

_It’s not working_ , Maerad cried. Before them, the iridugul was once more priming itself for another hit. Sweat dripped down Cadvan’s brow. It was getting harder and harder to maintain the shield of white fire, keep them protected from the elements and resist the crushing will of the mountain bearing down upon them. He felt Maerad gather herself again. 

_Stop, Maerad! It’s hurting me – we shall have to fight separately_. Cadvan’s arms shook. He thought fleetingly that he could do with Maerad’s strength, especially against another Elemental creature. 

_Try once more,_ Maerad said desperately. 

The iridugul had hefted its club. Cadvan shot out an arc of white fire, hitting it in one eye. The creature roared and tumbled backwards in a heap of storm clouds. It felt like the very mountain was roaring with it. Cadvan took a deep breath. He did not know how much longer he alone could last. 

_All right. Now._

This time, Cadvan felt like he had been hit by the iridugul’s club. Bright white light flashed before his eyes, and he was blown from his feet. He gasped, staggering upright, to find Maerad staring at him blankly. 

_Maerad, it’s like you’re attacking me; if you do that again, you’ll destroy me._ Cadvan’s legs shook beneath him. The iridugul was still down – but not for long. They had to act now. We shall have to fight separately. We need to make semblances to confuse it; are not clever, these creatures! 

But there was no time for any more conversation. The iridugul had regained its feet. The hit had disabled one of its eyes, but also ignited a fierce rage; it screamed, a terrible noise like rocks crashing together, and rained down a barrage of continuous blows against Cadvan’s shield. Cadvan gritted his teeth and held firm; he had faith in the strength of his shield, but it required concentration to maintain it while also conjuring a semblance of himself and Darsor. He felt Maerad beside him as a small, anxious presence. Her fear unsettled him. He could not help but recall the last time her fear had compelled her to act irrationally, and the dire consequences it had brought about. But, to his relief, when he felt her power bloom around them it was in the form of a secondary bubble of white fire, buttressing his own from within. It took much of the strain off him, and within moments his glimmerspell flickered into life. Maerad took longer to cast her semblance, but eventually they each stood in the exact same spot as a shining replica of themselves. It looked extremely strange from the outside; when Cadvan looked at Maerad, she seemed as if she had two faces layered on top of one another. When she turned to him for the signal, her semblance kept looking forwards, so that one face had another sticking out its side. In any other situation, Cadvan might have laughed. Instead, he grimly turned back to the iridugul and waited. It did not take long; after a few more futile blows, the iridugul grew even more infuriated. It lifted its head to scream at the sky – and Cadvan moved. Leaving the shield of white fire over their replicas, he darted for the base of the cliff and towards the hairpin bend beyond. Maerad skittered at his tail, so close she was practically stepping on his heels. Now without protection, the hail pelted them like stones, the icy wind making tears stream from Cadvan’s eyes, but they could not pause, could not hesitate. Their only hope was to get as far away as possible. 

They hurried closer to the bend. We just need to pass the corner, Cadvan thought to himself, and we have a chance of escape. The low wall which was the only barrier against the high, sheer drop beyond loomed ever nearer, the only solid thing standing out against the gloom. They were so close – if only they could make it – 

The gloom moved. Before Cadvan’s eyes, two more hulking shapes materialised, their mouths spewing ice-fire. One of them reached out and, with brutal ease, snatched up one of the ancient figureheads marking the roadside as a club. Cadvan threw a shield up before himself and Maerad, and mounted Darsor. Illusions might confuse one iridugul long enough to escape cleanly, but not three. All they could do was run. But where was safety when they were still two days from the end of the pass? Iriduguls were not creatures of innate Darkness – not like wers, which could only hunt at night. Iriduguls were creatures of place. As long as he and Maerad were on the mountain they were in iridugul territory, and so were at risk. Cadvan had pushed the whole party hard since leaving Ossin, feeling keenly the dangers of lingering in Annar. Now, exhausted and at their sanity’s end, none of them could withstand a mad two-day sprint pursued by monsters made of the very mountain and cloud they passed through. But that prospect was better than the alternative. 

_Maerad, we’re going to have to blast them and run,_ Cadvan turned to Maerad and noticed for the first time that she was alone. 

_Where’s Imi?_

_She ran off. . ._

Mouth pressed into a firm line, Cadvan reached out and pulled her onto Darsor behind him. It would mean that Darsor would run that much slower. Instinctively, he sent out a bolt of white fire, hitting one of the iriduguls in the eye. He felt a thrill of power from behind him, and bolt from Maerad followed his, also landing true. The creatures screamed in fury. 

_Go, Darsor!_ Cadvan cried, and without hesitation the great black horse plunged forwards, making for the bend in the road. Darsor was fast as a flash of lightning, and soon he was spinning around the corner, his hooves skidding on the icy road. Maerad’s arms were a vice around Cadvan’s torso. He didn’t care. Despite the distance that had been steadily growing between them for the past weeks, the feel of Maerad’s chest pressed against his back was an immense comfort. 

_We’ve been through worse things that this before,_ Cadvan told himself (although he couldn’t think of any just then), _things I thought we’d not survive. So long as we’re together, we’ll get through this too._

Suddenly, the sound of splintering rock tore through the air. Cadvan’s stomach dropped, but Darsor only ran faster, leaping so quickly the world around Cadvan was a grey-white blur. All he could see clearly was the road before him and his own white-knuckled hands gripping Darsor’s reins. The terrible tearing noise sounded again and everything shook – Darsor’s hooves skidded but could not find purchase on the icy road, and Cadvan felt certain that they would all fall, and be dashed against the rocky ground. But at the last moment, Darsor caught himself, rearing violently. Cadvan clung to him as if his life depended on it – which, he thought with a sickening jolt, it did – and summoned all the dregs of power left within him – then froze in horror. Maerad’s grip on his mid-section had disappeared. He twisted in the saddle and saw her, a heap on the road, already some distance behind. 

“Maerad!” he yelled, pulling desperately on Darsor’s reins, but the animal was beyond control – he plunged on, unheeding of Cadvan’s calls, and the last thing Cadvan saw was Maerad’s pale face watching them disappear. Then, chaos. Rocks rained down at velocity from the cliff face above them. One as large as Darsor impacted not far from them, taking with it a huge chunk of road. It spun off into the endless white mists below, and Cadvan did not hear it hit the ground. 

_Darsor, we have lost Maerad!_ Cadvan called to the horse, but Darsor would not slow. He was bolting straight towards the mountain-face, and for a moment Cadvan was certain his mount had gone mad from panic. He opened his mouth to make a command in the Speech, forcing Darsor to stop, but could not seem to find the words. 

Darsor sped forwards; he had spied an opening, little more than a crack in the rock-face perhaps large enough for a horse. It would have to be. Cadvan did not see it – his mind was still on the road behind them, straining to get a glimpse of Maerad, to reach her. Smaller stones ricocheted off Cadvan’s shield, but he knew that no amount of Bardic power would help them if they were hit by one of the larger boulders. The very ground beneath them was moving, crumbling away like it was made of old bread, and it sounded like the whole cliff-face was falling on top of them. Still Darsor charged on and Cadvan could not see or think, could not hear beyond crashing rock and the screams of the iriduguls – could not even distinguish between the sound of the rock-slide and his own blood thundering in his ears.


	2. Chapter 2

Time had lost all meaning; Darsor’s hooves clattered rhythmically, lulling Cadvan into an empty stupor. Memories came to him like flashing images, like they belonged to someone else, passing by so quickly he could not recognise them until a multitude settled into just one, playing over and over again in his mind’s eye. Maerad’s pale face shining in the light of his white fire as below her the road crumbled; her dark eyes watched him escape confusedly and, to Cadvan’s memory, accusingly. He tried to finch away, but Maerad’s accusatory glare was replaced by an image of Ceredin in the moments before her death, consumed with terror and fear. She had not had time to scream before the Revenant had cut her down. And Ilar of Desor, still scowling in death, a smoking black mark between her eyebrows. All these deaths on his hands; and how many more?

All of a sudden, Cadvan blinked, and realised the wind had ceased. The crashing of rocks was muffled, as if from a great distance; while the ground, the very air around them, still shook, all remained firm and did not crumble. Cadvan could see nothing at all. Darsor, no longer sprinting, trotted a way then stopped, his sides heaving. 

_We are safe here,_ Darsor said. Cadvan did not respond. He didn’t know where they were, and didn’t care. He felt numb, like the ice had cut in through his eyes and mouth and ears and seeped into his blood. He sat hunched over Darsor, paralysed, mind trying to catch up to his body. The events of the last few minutes – for minutes it had been – replayed in his head sluggishly, as if someone was slowly flicking through a picture-book, explaining what the images meant. Then, with blunt finality, everything rushed together. Maerad, dead. Crushed in an avalanche, or worse, by the iriduguls. Her face as he had last glimpsed it appeared before him as a kind of hallucination, her features clouded with confusion and fear. Blackness swept his soul. For a manic moment, all Cadvan could think to do was fling himself from the cliffside, felt the resolution harden in his stomach, and he dismounted Darsor. Only then did he realise that he was no longer on the cliff-road, no longer out in the open mountain terrain, but somewhere close and confined. Instinctively, he raised his hand and a silver magelight blinked into being, casting a ghoulish silver light on their surroundings. They were in a cave – or, more accurately, a tunnel cut roughly into the side of the mountain. It was narrow and low, just tall enough for Darsor to fit inside; if Cadvan were to sit erect on Darsor’s back his forehead would scrape on the ceiling. It was a lucky thing he had been so bent over the saddle when they had entered, or half of his head would still be smashed against the tunnel entrance. The entrance! Cadvan strengthened the magelight; behind and before them stretched nothing but darkness. The rockfall had sealed up the tunnel entrance. How close had they come to being crushed by ice-stones, or hurled from the road entirely, to suffer a long fall and sudden impact against the base of the mountain below? It was a miracle Darsor had seen the tunnel in the darkness and chaos. 

_You have saved my life, old friend,_ Cadvan said to Darsor, _again._

_But not the young one,_ said Darsor. Around them, the mountain still shook. It did not scare Cadvan. He wondered if it was because he was sure of his own safety, or if he no longer had any care for it. 

_She may, too, have found some hidden refuge,_ Cadvan said, but the words sounded empty. _We must wait out the danger, then find a way to return to the Pass._

Darsor seemed content with this plan, and they slowly regained their breaths, listening to the far-off cacophony. The tunnel was still icy-cold, but a vast improvement from the hail-and snow-ridden outside. It was impossible to tell how much time passed. Cadvan attempted to find Maerad’s mind with his own, but could only feel the weight of the storm, with no hint of Maerad’s presence. Once he and Darsor had become accustomed to the tunnel, he extinguished his magelight to save energy, only relighting it some time later when Darsor expressed hunger. As Cadvan took out the sack of oats for Darsor, he almost asked Maerad if she, too, as hungry, before he remembered that she was not there. Still, he wondered to himself if she was hungry, wherever she was, or if she was beyond the call of hunger – either through exhaustion, like Cadvan, or through death. There seemed to be nothing that could ease Cadvan’s anxious mind; he nurtured the hope for Maerad’s survival in his heart like precious kindling, cupping it against a storm of doubt. This fragile hope did not extinguish his grief, merely replaced it with worry. If she was not yet dead, it was only a matter of time; if the landslide had not caught her, if she had scrambled into some safe spot, then she might be trapped there behind tonnes of rock, her food and water supply run off with Imi; she might be still under attack from the iriduguls, or being taken at this moment to the Winterking, who was doubtless the orchestrator of the ambush; or she might be injured, or slowly dying of exposure, or any number of terrible scenarios.   
After a long time, the mountain stilled, and silence fell. At some point, Cadvan had placed himself on the ground, and here he remained, casting his mind forwards. He could follow the route of the tunnel with much greater ease now that the mountain had stopped disintegrating above them, and saw with relief that the path followed a single route. He remembered the honeycomb labyrinth of rooms and walkways that the mountain lion had led himself and Maerad through after their escape from the wers. The thought of being trapped within the mountains, blindly wandering forever, was too awful to consider. Renewed efforts to cast his mind back to the Pass were also futile; he could feel no living presence on either side of the tunnel. Cadvan’s hope withered a little more. 

It did not take long for Cadvan and Darsor to pass through the mountains. After what felt like an hour or so of walking, the tunnel broadened out, and Cadvan was once more able to mount Darsor. From there the going was faster and easier for them both; Darsor, having sensed Cadvan’s recklessness when they thought Maerad crushed under the rubble, was keen to keep a firm hold on his friend. When they emerged from the other side, Cadvan was surprised to find that it was still night-time. The full moon hung high like a silver eye, watching with neither kindness not cruelty, casting a light strong enough to see by. Below the moon, blazing brightly across the night sky in a great arc, were the Lukemoi, the riders of the stars. Cadvan had never seen them so bright. He felt tears prick at his eyes. 

_Are you there?_ He called to them. _Are you there, dear Maerad? Do you watch over me on the way to the Groves of Shadow?_

Abruptly, he turned away. He was suffused with a furious stubbornness. He could not think this way, would not think this way, he would not break, would not rest, until he knew for certain whether Maerad was dead or alive. Setting his jaw, he turned his attention to the rock face to his left. What was a mountain to him? What was a cliff-face, if Maerad might be on the other side? It was nothing. 

It took another two hours before Cadvan found a relatively secure route over the mountain. Ilion was blazing on the horizon – it would not be long before dawn lightened the sky. He tended to Darsor quickly, brushing the dried sweat from his coat and providing plenty of food and water to keep him content. Then, he ascended the mountain. 

It was a difficult, slow ascent. Sometimes the path was shallow enough to walk – at other times, so steep Cadvan found himself scaling it like a monkey up a tree. The rock was covered in ice and snow and jagged outcroppings, slicing Cadvan’s skin. His hands were so cold he didn’t feel the pain, only noticing when he left red stains behind in the snow. Once, a rock slipped free from beneath Cadvan’s feet and, for a heart-stopping moment, he dangled by his fingers from the cliff-face, a drop of some fifteen spans awaiting him. Then he somehow hauled himself over a ledge and was safe again. He did not recall the moment when he had passed the peak of the mountain, when the steep ascent became a shallow descent. All he remembered was finding himself rather suddenly on the Gwalhain Pass, as if placed there by an invisible hand. The moon was no longer a luminescent medallion, but just a grey smudge somewhere high in the pale purple sky. The Lukemoi were gone. 

And Maerad? Had she gone with them? 

Cadvan had only to round a corner to see the site of their battle with the iriduguls. The wall on one side of the road, formerly smooth, was pocked with immense, ragged craters from their clubs. In one spot, there was a black burn mark from a bolt of white fire gone astray, and on the ground not far off was the same kind of scorch mark, only in a wide, thin circle. This, Cadvan knew, was from his shield of white fire. He saw it all before him as if it had happened to someone else. Following the echoes of his former self, Cadvan dashed for the next turn – the same turn that, only hours ago, he had dashed for with Maerad at his heels, and where the next two iriduguls had appeared, cementing their fate. 

He skidded to a stop. An immense heap of rubble blocked Cadvan’s way, so great it seemed as if it were an outcrop of the mountain itself, swallowing up the road. Nothing trapped underneath could have survived. 

A black veil fell over Cadvan’s vision. His knees buckled – he could not breathe – he was on his hands and knees, digging into the rubble uselessly, his bloody hands leaving smears wherever he touched – why could he not breathe? And why did it matter? What was the point of breath, of air, of anything, when all was already lost? – and then something else, another smear of red, caught his eye. He froze. 

It was on the side of the cliff face, less than two metres from where Cadvan had crawled. A patch of dark red blood about the size of Cadvan’s palm stained the ice-wall, in some places splattered or dripping in small red flecks. On the ground below was a slightly larger, more self-isolated patch, as if some wound had rested here and seeped slowly onto the ground. Cadvan reached out a hand, touching the iced-over pool of blood almost tenderly. He knew with utter certainty it belonged to Maerad – who else could it have belonged to? Cadvan had not been injured in the flight, and iriduguls did not bleed. There was no chance anyone else had passed by this way in the course of the night. No, Maerad had been here – she had been injured – but where was she now?   
The sight of Maerad’s blood had sent a jolt of life through Cadvan. The veil lifted from his eyes. Over decades of travelling in danger and getting himself out of tight spots, Cadvan’s mind had learnt to react to certain situations with an incredible level of mental efficiency. He had never been so grateful for his life of hardship; for now, Cadvan was thrust into action where others would have crumbled. He looked closer at the two patches of blood. They were dark, but not particularly large, certainly not enough to be fatal. A site of injury, not death. So where had Maerad gone from here? Cadvan glanced once more at the rubble, then turned away. That option he would not consider for now. 

He searched the immediate area closely but could find no blood trail, or even any hint that Maerad herself had moved from that spot. Which meant that she had been moved by another. But where?   
Forwards was not an option. The pile of rock covering the path might have been surmountable for a very fit, experienced individual in easy weather, but in the unnatural storm of last night it was practically impossible. So, the most reasonable option was back through the Pass treading south. 

Cadvan walked slowly along the road, retracing their steps from the day before. Beyond the site of the initial confrontation with the iriduguls, Cadvan could see no sign that he or Maerad had ever been there. If they had left any trail in the snow, it was now utterly obliterated by the storm – the Pass looked as if it hadn’t been used in months. Yet Cadvan searched on, desperate for any glimpse that the road had been passed through after the conjured storm had ended – for any sign that Maerad had passed back this way. There was none. All the while, Cadvan kept close eye on how far he had travelled; half a league, one league, two. Finally, just as he was about to turn back, he felt a sign of life. But it was not what he had expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> V v short chapter. This and the last chapters were originally supposed to be one, but it felt right to separate them for Suspense Reasons. Most of the other chapters will be significantly longer!


	3. Chapter 3

“. . . all my grief says the same thing:  
this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.  
this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.  
and the world laughs.  
holds my hope by the throat.  
says:  
but this is how it is.”

– Fortesa Latifi 

A group of people was approaching from up ahead, not yet within seeing distance. Listening closely, Cadvan detected four – no, five – horses, heavy wagons wheels, and the footfall of five people. Pilanel travellers returning to Muransk for the winter. They would be bringing back the products of their travels to help sustain their people through the cold season; foods and grains from the south, fabrics and, most importantly, news. Cadvan waited for them impatiently. It was not long before the haze ahead took shape, and from it emerged a row of caravans trundling one after the other down the narrow Pass. The caravans were decorated in the traditional Pilanel way with bright geometric shapes that stood out from the surrounding grey rock. The front caravan was pulled by two sturdy Pilanel mountain horses; leading the horses were two people so bundled up in layers that Cadvan could not identify them beyond the fact that they were Pilanel. 

As easily as Cadvan has seen the Pilanel coming, they too had seen him from a long way off and slowed warily. Strangers in these parts were treated with caution in the best circumstances. This stranger, with his bloody hands and black hood covering his face, sent the travelling party rippling with caution. 

“Greetings,” Cadvan called out mildly, using the most common of the Pilanel languages. Now that the travellers were closer, he could see that the two leaders were both men of typical Pilanel sock; tall, burly, and hard-looking, with dark skin and eyes. Distrustful eyes. 

_“Om ail nel?”_ one of the men demanded. _Who are you?_

“I am Cadvan of Lirigon,” Cadvan said “I travel to Zmarkan on a quest of great urgency. I mean you no harm.” 

The two men looked at each other warily, but a cry sounded from the second caravan – a female voice talking in a sub-dialect Cadvan was less familiar with. The leaders called back. 

_“Talia! I Kommini ai ba. Minikim Cadvan Ligioni na. Na shad oki’e tka?”_

_“Cadvan Ligioni na? Na, na! Aiiiiiiie, im hka’i na Cadvan Ligioni na! Aiiiiiiie!”_ The trilling voice of the unseen Pilanel woman almost made Cadvan smile. ‘Aie’ was a dialectical Pilani word which had an infinite number of meanings, and that meaning might change based on the sentence context or how drawn-out it was being said. From the tone, Cadvan gathered the woman was speaking of him favourably. This, in fact, was true enough; Talia, sitting on the bench of the second caravan, was speaking less of his reputation as a well-respected Wiseman and more in favour his (in places, equally well-respected) good-looks. 

“We have heard of Cadvan of Lirigon,” the man said a little stiffly “he is held in high regard by the Headwoman of we, the Southern Clans: Sirkana à Triberi.” His eyes were still shaded with distrust but were no longer hostile. His companion, in contrast, was gazing at Cadvan with open curiosity and awe. 

“I know Sirkana well. She is a great _Dhillarearën_ and a strong and wise leader.” 

This seemed to please the two men, who visibly relaxed. The speaker placed his fist to his heart, then his forehead in the Pilanel gesture of respect. 

“I am Hakka à Hararuk and this is my brother, Ahnna à Haraduk.” Hakka gestured to his companion, who grinned and offered Cadvan a much more enthusiastic welcome “We are travelling with our families back to Musansk for the dark months.” 

Cadvan nodded impatiently, offering his own hurried bows. 

“I have become separated from my travelling companion, a young Annarean woman with dark hair and of similar garb to myself. I wonder, have you crossed paths with anyone matching that description?” 

Hakka and Ahnna looked at Cadvan sceptically, then called back to their fellows, relaying Cadvan’s query. None of them had seen anyone since entering the Gwalhain Pass a week ago. Hakka cast another doubtful glance at Cadvan’s attire. 

“Winter comes early this year,” he said “if she is dressed as you are, as you say, she will not last long out here. And these roads are dangerous for one travelling alone.”

“Flimsy Annarean cloaks,” Ahnna snorted, stroking his thick Pilanel coat with pride “no good for anything but drizzles and their soft Southern winds. She might as well be wearing nothing at all!”

Cadvan shot him a dark look, but did not need to voice his thoughts – before Ahnna had even finished talking, Hakka gave his brother a sharp smack over the head and a telling-off in such rapid Pilani that Cadvan caught nothing but some adamant swearing. Ahnna cast a cowed glance at Cadvan and did not speak again. 

In truth, Cadvan was unsurprised that the Pilanel travellers had not seen Maerad; it would be easy enough for her to hide herself with a glimmerspell. He also did not think the chances of her trying to escape back down the Gwahlain Pass was high, since she was hunted by both Light and Dark in Annar, and since she knew that refuge in Muransk was a mere week of travel away. The million options that he had contemplated while travelling through the mountain were quickly synthesising into a probable few. The most likely of these was the pile of rocks on the road ahead. 

_“Aiiie!”_ a voice suddenly called from the back _“Kala’la ka na toui! Nikki Pilani na, ka balakat’fi.”_

Cadvan’s heart thundered in his chest. “You found a horse?” he repeated. This, finally, was some good news. Hakka made a rapid chivvying noise – there was a dull uproar from the rear of the trail – and, led through the nearby bay by a bundled-up clan-member, came a familiar figure. 

_Imi!_ Cadvan threw himself at the dappled mare, overcome by a rush of affection. She blew a delighted puff of air into his hair. Other than being little roughed up and shaken, she appeared miraculously unharmed – she even still bore all Maerad’s saddle-bags and tack. 

_I am sorry for fleeing_ , Imi said, shying away from him. He patted and soothed her, holding back tears. It felt wrong to see Imi without her rider. 

_Are you hurt?_ Cadvan asked her, then repeated the question out loud to Hakka. The person leading Imi responded. 

“Nothing but travel-weariness and bolting-bruises.” They spoke with the same enthusiastic female voice Cadvan had heard call earlier; this must be Talia, Cadvan thought. “You ride your horses hard, Cadvan of Lirigon.” She batted her eyelashes suggestively, winking. Cadvan blanched. 

_Where is my friend?_ Imi was shaking her head impatiently, nipping at Cadvan’s cloak as if he had Maerad hidden in his pockets. Cadvan pressed his forehead against Imi’s long nose. He could not lie to her – he could not lie to one who had loved and cared for Maerad so dearly. 

_I believe it is very likely she is dead_ , Cadvan said, _or soon will be._

The effect on Imi was instantaneous. She threw back her head and reared, whinnying with such force that it sounded like a scream. Talia leapt away, but Cadvan kept a hold of her, finding some release in her upset; it was a catharsis he could not permit himself. He imagined himself in Imi’s place, feeling her anguish; he pictured himself screaming and raging and weeping – how he wished he could! He would tear down the mountain with the force of his grief, would tear himself apart with screaming until he was nothing more than the howl of four winds, if only the laws of the world matched those of his heart. But such things were impossible; and he owed a duty to the Light, and to all those he loved. His strength would be saved for other purposes. 

Imi’s outbreak was as brief as it was violent. Soon she settled once more, and the only sign of her distress was her shaking sides. Cadvan shook, too, and he stroked her neck until they both became calm. 

“What did you say to her?” Talia gaped. 

“Some bad news.” Cadvan said quietly. He looked closely at Imi. 

_Do you wish to continue journeying with Darsor and myself? You are a dear friend, and would be welcome._

_No_. The answer was firm. Cadvan merely nodded and turned back to Hakka, who was watching him with a stunned expression. 

“The road ahead has been blocked by a heavy rockslide,” Cadvan said “I do not know if it can be cleared before the winter descends in force. You may be forced to remain in Annar.”  
Hakka did not meet this news happily, but nor did he seem daunted. 

“We’ll see about that,” he said gruffly “as you can see, we are not a small clan, and have many strong men. We may make the pass to our homeland yet.” With a sweep of the arms, Hakka gestured to the caravan trail. Now that Cadvan was in the bay, he could fully see the extent of the party. Five large caravans were waiting in a row, looking as if they were bulging at the seams. In addition to Hakka, Ahnna and Talia, there were another three Pilanel travelling on foot beside the caravans. By the sheer size of them, Cadvan guessed they were all men, although this in itself was not an accurate indicator; the Pilani produced women who could tower of any Annarean, and more often than not over their men-folk, too. By personal experience, Cadvan knew that each caravan could hold a shocking amount of people, supplies and equipment with ease. Pilanel caravans were designed to support all the rigours of family life while also being sturdy enough for difficult terrain; many were artfully engineered, with sections that folded out to create comfortable sleeping compartments, and were filled with ingenious storage solutions so that the travellers could gather as much as possible to bring back to Zmarkan in the winter. Since he was leading the caravans, Cadvan could guess that Hakka was one of the senior-most members of this troupe. 

Hakka offered for Cadvan to travel with them to the site of the avalanche. Cadvan, seeing the excited gleam that lit in Talia’s eyes, accepted a little cautiously. He need not have worried. With another swift, if slightly more affectionate, hit around the head, Ahnna was banished further back down the line and Cadvan was invited to sit on the driving bench next to Hakka. There, they exchanged news of Annar. 

“We passed through the Suderain some four months ago,” Hakka said “and there was a black smell in the air. We did not longer long in the south.” 

“Darkness gathers power throughout Annar,” Cadvan agreed “I fear for all those who follow the path of the Light. It is no bad thing that you return to the north now.” 

“I have heard the Bards are splintering into war with each other.” Hakka said, glancing at Cadvan. Even sitting in cordial conversation, there was something about this Bard of Lirigon that made Hakka sit a little straighter. “Commands being issued up and down the land by Norloch. Failed rites. I have never seen the Bards so scared.” 

“At which Schools did the rites fail?” Cadvan asked keenly. He remembered with clarity the near-disaster that had been the Rite of Renewal in Busk; it had taken nearly all of his strength to make the Tree of Life over after Nerili had collapsed. Cadvan, who had no modest idea of his own strength, knew with certainty that he would not have been able to remake the mirror and make the Tree alone. How many schools would be going into a broken year?

Hakka shrugged and began listing off Schools: Narn, Elevé, Arnocen, Il Arunedh, Car Amdridh, Baladh – a close thing at Gent and Busk, so he heard it, but they had managed.  
Lirigon and Innail, too, had just about managed by collective effort within their First Circles. Cadvan took in the names silently, feeling each blow. All Schools who held true to the Light. It could not be a coincidence. 

“And the people are restless,” Hakka continued “many in Annar are fleeing their homes. And there are such terrible rumours – the spread of the White Sickness, children being taken from their homes to be used for Dark purposes.” Hakka shook his head, lip curled in distaste. “And I like not this early winter. If, as you say, the road is blocked then the people in Muransk will suffer gravely.” 

Cadvan did not respond. He did not say what he thought: that if Maerad was truly dead, and the quest broken, then there would be far more suffering, and no one would be safe ever again. 

They arrived at the site of the landslide. Hakka looked at it speculatively for a moment then, with a whistle, the doors to the caravans slammed open and a swarm of people streamed out. Cadvan blinked. Before him stood about fifteen strong young men and women, all looking at the heap of rocks with thoughtful expressions. Far from being overcome by the impossibility of the situation, as Cadvan had been on his own, they seemed to view the roadblock as merely a challenging inconvenience. Cadvan followed Hakka off the caravan. 

“Can it be cleared?” Cadvan asked. 

“’Can it be cleared’?” repeated one of the men who had emerged from the caravan, a wiry middle-aged fellow Hakka introduced as Suak. “Anything can be cleared, if you’ve the muscle and the time. This is no different.” 

Cadvan frowned a little impatiently. “Well, how long will this take to clear?” 

“We are strong, and this winter is not yet too cold to remain here – I’d say two weeks, all things permitting. More, if not.” Suak said. Cadvan’s stomach dropped. He could not be loitering on a mountain-side for two weeks while the Dark grew to the south. “Unless, that is, you can do some Barding that would speed along the process?” Suak looked at Cadvan hopefully. Even with twice their number of hands working to shift the rock day and night, it would still be a laborious and, being utterly exposed to the elements on one side, a dangerous process; not to mention that the road beneath may plausibly be damaged beyond use. If that was the case, the travellers would have no choice but to go back and winter in North Annar, leaving the people in Muransk to suffer a long winter on thin resources. But Cadvan was already shaking his head. 

“This obstruction is practically a mountain in itself; even with a team of powerful Bards it would take an immense amount of time and effort to shift,” Cadvan smiled apologetically “and I am only one man.”

“Ah,” Suak shrugged, and shot Cadvan a searching look, as if he were a cow being judged for sale “ _aie_ , but you look young enough – not too old for a little manual labour, although I grant you star-folk hide your true age well. We can put those hands to good use yet.” 

“Oh, no, you don’t!” a stern voice interrupted “Not hands like _that_.” One of the be-layered figures who stood nearby had turned and grabbed Cadvan’s hands, which he had been hiding in the folds of his cloak. 

“This is Nakk’ta à Triberi – a right fair healer if you can convince her.” Suak commented somewhat needlessly, for it seemed to Cadvan that Nakk’ta’s interest was beyond stemming; she had brought Cadvan’s hands before her and was turning them to and fro, tutting. They were a mess of cuts and gauges, sticky with bright blood made all the more shocking against Cadvan’s blue-tinged skin. Dirt and dried blood were crammed beneath and around his nails, and what skin remained unsliced by rock was so dry from cold that it was cracking. Cadvan could hardly feel them.

“Talia! Kala!” Nakk’ta cried, tutting again. “ _Aiiiieee!_ I thought Bards were supposed to be wise, careful folk! The state of these hands! And no gloves, in this cold – do you want to lose your fingers? _Aiieeeee_. . .” 

In fact, Cadvan had removed his gloves to climb over the mountain, since they afforded an ill grip, and had forgotten to put them back on again – a move which was, he admitted to himself, deeply foolish. He did not mention this, hoping Nakk’ta and the small swarm of Pilanel women descending on him would not see them tucked into his belt. And swarm it was. Very soon Cadvan was surrounded by bundled up women all muttering to each other disgustedly at the state of his hands, and before he knew it, he was ushered into one of the caravans to receive medical treatment. The caravan interior was as brightly decorated as the exterior – everything was covered in a riot of colours and shapes and pictures. The floorspace was taken up with a lot of very wide, firm cushions for sitting on while in transit, and an entire wall was fully dedicated to storage; this, Cadvan presumed, was where the occupants kept their spare clothing, bed-rolls and other such necessities. It was to this wall that Nakk’ta bustled, rifling around with many grunts of dissatisfaction, while three younger Pilanel women commanded Cadvan to do certain exercises with his fingers. His fingers were at first stiff, the skin stretching painfully where it bent, but he could move them all and soon had sensation in them again. Once it was clear that Cadvan was not at risk of frostbite, his hands were washed in several baths of water, slowly increasing in temperature, until they were no longer so stiff; the water baths also cleaned off all the half-dried blood and dirt, revealing the true extent of his injuries. Nakk’ta looked them over with a frown but did not seem displeased. 

“They will heal, easy,” she nodded “not so bad as they looked at first, eh? I thought we’d be wrapping you up from nail to elbow! But, no, only these two will need sealing.”

Suak had not been exaggerating when he said Nakk’ta was a gifted healer-woman; while she possessed no Gift, she had an incredible store of herbs, all of which had some medical use or another. There were even several that Cadvan did not recognise, and which he asked after eagerly. Nakk’ta was happy to share her knowledge, but her stern expression did not waver while she watched over the tending of Cadvan’s hands. She had a commanding, capable presence that made Cadvan feel like a little boy once more; not to mention that she so tall her head brushed the caravan roof. Once it was established that Cadvan’s hands were not likely to, as Nakk’ta put it, ‘drop off at a stiff breeze’, the entourage of young Pilanel women was not dismissed, but commanded into a flurry of activity. Two girls tended to Cadvan’s hands, one to each, dabbing at the lesions with a stinging liquid that smelled of vinegar, while the third watched and hurried to fetch poultices in anticipation of Nakk’ta’s need. Cadvan realised he was being used as a practical teaching aid. His respect for Nakk’ta increased. 

“Nakk’ta à Triberi.” Cadvan said, wincing when one of the girls prodded a particularly deep cut with the vinegar “You are of the same clan as the Headwoman of the Southern Clans, Sirkana?” 

Nakk’ta gave him a dry look. Amusement crinkled her eyes, and a forgotten face bubbled up from the recesses of Cadvan’s memory, just out of reach, then was gone. The Pilanel girls tittered to one another. 

“Yes, I know Sirkana very well,” Nakk’ta said simply. Cadvan was overcome with the feeling that he was missing something obvious, but the thought was cast forcefully from his mind by another un-gentle splash of vinegar from Talia. Cadvan hissed, looking at her sharply, but she merely offered an unrepentant apology and a wink. 

After the cuts had been cleaned, several layers of an earthy-smelling balm were applied to Cadvan’s hands, front and back. At first, this cream felt cool against Cadvan’s skin but within seconds it had warmed up considerably, flushing his skin pink. Talia, who was in charge of Cadvan’s left hand, did a particularly diligent job of massaging the cream in; by the time she was done he was not sure if he should remove his hand forcefully from her grasp or thank her. There were two larger cuts on Cadvan’s right palm from where he had slipped and dangled against the rock-face – these were handled by Nakk’ta personally, who pinched the two sides of the cuts together so vigorously a small squeak escaped Cadvan’s lips. Then a thick, pale kind of clay was applied and allowed to dry, and the excess wiped off: this, said Nakk’ta, was clay from the Lovela River mixed with several healing herbs. It pulled infection from the bod, and could be used to seal small cuts since the body naturally expelled it as it healed. 

“It also does wonders for the complexion,” Talia added seriously in an undertone. 

Finally, Cadvan’s hands were bound from knuckle to wrist in thin strips of fabric, leaving his fingers free. But the women were not done yet. 

“This,” Nakk’ta said, flicking at Cadvan’s cloak distastefully, “will not do. This cloak will do nothing, flapping about in the wind like a butterfly. You need much more than this.” Cadvan, more than a little attached to his big black cloak, frowned but did not dare disagree. 

The younger women were dispatched again, and in their absence Nakk’ta looked over Cadvan’s hands again, surveying her students’ work. 

“How did they do?” Cadvan asked with amusement. To him, the bandages seemed faultless. Nakk’ta curled her lips and rocked her head to-and-fro in the universal ‘eh, so-so’ gesture. 

“You are very skilled.” 

“I must be skilled,” Nakk’ta said “with a family this big and troublesome to care for. They are forever getting into silly scrapes, causing hurts – it is in the blood, I think.” Cadvan detected a fond glimmer in her eye. Then that eye turned sharply on him. “It is in your blood too, I think, Cadvan of Lirigon. I think there are many troubles you have had to heal yourself from. Over-many, I say, for one so young.” 

“I am not so young as I appear.” Cadvan murmured. And yet, seated in that musky old caravan, Cadvan did feel young – young and small and heavy. There was something about Nakk’ta’s gaze that pierced him, that peeled back layers of skin and muscle and time; she saw straight through all that he was to the arrogant, insecure young man he had been – and, through that, to the nervous, restless child he had been before everything, before he had ever heard about Bards or Light or Dark or fate. To the innocent within him. 

“I say you _are_ young, Cadvan of Lirigon. I see a great wound in you – so old now – that you will not allow to heal. Yes, this wound is old and painful still – but you, Bard from the City of Stars, are not.” 

The smile that had been playing around Cadvan’s lips dropped. Nakk’ta was still grasping both of his hands in her own, her strong fingers pressing painfully into his split skin. The caravan felt very hot all of a sudden, and very close, like the walls were shrinking in on him. 

“What old wound?” Cadvan breathed. 

“Do not play the fool,” Nakk’ta snapped “it is a weak disguise for you, Truthteller. You know of what I speak. You hold it close to your soul and allow it to fester there.” The shrewd look returned. “I am a skilled healer, as you say, and I see all manner of hurts – but there are many that I cannot heal.” 

Nakk’ta’s tone reminded Cadvan so very strongly of Nelac that he flinched. He felt like bursting into tears. He blinked hard and a face appeared, hovering over Nakk’ta’s shoulder; pale-skinned, dark-haired, clouded with betrayal.

A shuddering breath escaped his lips. _I’m sorry!_ Cadvan wanted to cry, _I’m sorry I failed you! You died instead of me – how I wish it had been me! I’m sorry!_

“Old wounds repeat themselves,” Nakk’ta’s voice reached Cadvan’s ears faintly “and old pains sting twice as bitter. But not all is gone beyond repair.”

The caravan door banged open. Cadvan whirred, but it was just young Talia, her arms heaped with thick furs. When Cadvan looked back to the shadows of the caravan where the face had hovered, there was nothing, and he felt a rush of both relief and disappointment. Nakk’ta had released his hands, and was clearing up her chest of medical supplies, her back to Cadvan – it was a moment of privacy for which he was grateful. 

“Here,” Talia dropped the bundle she was carrying to the ground, then picked over it, pulling free a large leather coat lined with dense fur. “ _This_ will keep you from freezing to death, at least. _Aieeee!_ That cloak!”

As instructed, Cadvan removed his hardy old cloak and donned the coat Talia held up. Immediately, Cadvan was bundled up in warmth, the smells of animal hair and wood-smoke surrounding him. It was a familiar smell, and reminded him of pleasant, quiet evenings in the peace of the wilderness, cooking over a camp-fire. 

“It belonged to Nakk’ta’s son,” Talia said absently, still rummaging through the pile on the floor “when he was younger. But he has outgrown it since.” 

“Outgrown it?” Cadvan repeated in disbelief. The coat was immense; were it not for all his many layers, it would have drowned him entirely. 

“Yes,” Talia said with a sly look “Annarean men may be beautiful and fair-tall enough, but you are thin as _pra’ma_ , the water-reeds. Water-reeds do not survive the winter blizzards! We Pilani must be strong as mountain-boulders if we are to prosper.” Talia demonstrated this by slapping a palm to her strong round thigh, laughing loudly. 

Cadvan, who was quickly becoming used to her exuberance, smiled. “Not all South-Men are so thin as I,” he said, “you are unfortunate, I think, to have only met the fool-hardy, bedraggled ones.”

“Maybe so.” Talia agreed, the twinkle in her eyes seeming to say that she didn’t mind at all. “Well, that coat fits well enough, no? It is better than nothing, yes? Let me see the hood. . . _Aiee_ , that’s well enough. A sight better than that raggedy thing. _Aie, aiee_. . .” 

Cadvan was further furnished with a set of thick fur-lined gloves and buskins that came up to his knees. The buskins Cadvan did not yet don, braving Nakk’ta and Talia’s censure and instead stringing them over his shoulder by the laces. His hidden gloves were discovered and, as feared, he was appropriately censured. Nakk’ta was so sturdy and motherly that Cadvan feared she might box his ears as he had seen some fishwives do with their naughty children – but Nakk’ta refrained, instead instructing him to wear those gloves under the fur ones and not allowing him to leave until he had done so. 

When he emerged once more from the caravan, he was met with the approving nods of Suak and Hakka. Behind them, the other Pilanel were already setting themselves up for a long stay. To one side, a broad fire encircled with black stones was being constructed, a wide cauldron already hung beneath a blackened tripod. By the rockslide, a loose organisational system had been established and the first stones were being hauled away. Talia’s words rung in Cadvan’s ears and, not for the first time, he was struck by the sturdiness of the Pilanel people. After many years of living in the most extreme environments imaginable, even their women were taller and stronger than most Annarean men; Cadvan, used to seeing over the heads of anyone in his company, found himself tilting his head up to look into their faces. It was difficult to believe that Maerad, who was neither tall nor particularly sturdy-looking, was half Pilanel. _Although_ , Cadvan added to himself, _she is much stronger than she looks_. This thought gave him a little comfort. 

“Well, here we are, and here we stay.” Hakka said. “The rock will be hard to clear, but we have no choice but to attempt it.” He squinted at Cadvan, not needing to voice his question: And you, lone traveller? Where will you go now?

Where would he go now? What would he do? Cadvan searched inside himself for some hidden Knowing, some inner sense telling him what his conscious mind could not see; he searched for some voice saying that Maerad was still alive, or an invisible string pulling him to her as Maerad had sometimes confessed to feeling for her brother Hem. But Cadvan could find nothing but his own dark despair, his own guilt and failure. He had failed her, and in so doing failed everyone he loved and who looked to him for protection. He had failed the Light. His eyes wandered to the immense pile of rock and rubble casting a shadow over the road. Was something there, mere feet away, something that had once been Maerad, crushed beyond recognition? Is this where the answers to all his turmoil lay, at his feet? He had a sudden vision of himself pushing aside a large rock to find Maerad on the other side, her body utterly crushed but her face strangely untouched, frozen in that confused, terrified expression that was his last memory of her; the only other thing saved from the rockfall was one arm, which reached out to Cadvan as if for supplication. On one of the fingers something would glint; the delicate golden ring, a gift from Ardina, splattered with blood. The vision was so realistic that a chill ran through Cadvan’s body, and he hunched over as if about to vomit. 

A loud cry went up from one of the Pilanel men, and Cadvan started violently. He sprinted over to the rubble without thinking, certain that his vision had come true, that he would see Maerad’s body in the wreckage – but there was nothing. The man had merely dropped one of the smaller rocks on his foot; the cry had been one of shock and pain, not horror. Cadvan realised he was shaking all over. He crouched down, placing his head in his hands, and took deep breaths until the tremors and nausea passed. Hakka was watching him with a carefully blank expression. 

_What shall you do?_ Cadvan asked himself again. _For you cannot stay here_. Waiting for the pass to be made clear was not an option; nor was suspending himself in dread, waiting for the chance that Maerad’s body might be unearthed. He forced himself to think rationally. _This has happened to someone else_ , he said. _Not you. This man crouching by the road is not you, but a stranger, and you must advise him. What should he do?_

Cadvan considered the variables. The rockslide had lasted a long time; there was just as much chance of finding the girl – for this person the man was looking for was not a friend of Cadvan’s, but also a stranger – as there was of the girl having been thrown over the edge of the mountain-side, and then there would be no hope of recovering her body. Waiting to see if she was beneath the rubble was a waste of time. 

_And what if she had avoided the rocks_ , the man asked. _What then?_

Then she still had to face three iriduguls and a conjured storm. There was no doubt in Cadvan’s mind that the storm and the monsters had been summoned to stop the girl. The girl was a mighty mage, but she had been tired and, Cadvan sensed, weakened in some undefinable way. She was no match for three powerful Elemental creatures. She could have been killed by the iriduguls – but then there would have been a body and more blood. If, by some incredible chance, the girl had escaped the iriduguls, she still had no food or water or shelter, no insulation beyond a cloak; she would have died of exposure before the sun breached the horizon. But, again, there was no body to be seen. 

And what of me? The man asked. 

_What of you?_

What do I do? 

_What do you wish to do?_

I wish to die, the man cried without hesitation. 

_But you cannot_ , Cadvan said. _Your life is not yours alone. Others rely on you. You have a responsibility to those who love you. You may choose death for yourself, but you cannot choose death for them._

The man gasped, and stood, and suddenly Cadvan was standing and gasping and blinking in the sunlight. 

Hakka watched Cadvan’s struggle for self-control from a short distance off. He felt he was watching something deeply private and that he should avert his gaze; equally, he also felt that he could not look away, that he must watch, as if he be called to intervene somehow. For several long breaths, Hakka balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, his eyes trained on the Bard’s shaking back. But then Cadvan straightened, and turned, and all worry was banished from Hakka’s mind. He relaxed. 

“I must return over the mountain.” Cadvan said once he had returned to Hakka’s side. He spoke and stood with a strength Hakka had not noticed before. “My horse is waiting for me. From there we must continue travelling North.” 

“I don’t know how long it will take us to breach the rock, or what we’ll find.” Hakka said. He became hesitant. “But if we find anything left. . . if we find your travelling companion, we will treat her with honour.”

A lump formed in Cadvan’s throat, but a small smile pulled at his lips. 

“She was half Pilanel, you know,” Cadvan said, his eyes far away “and you’d know it, if you saw her dancing. Her hair would fly everywhere, like –” Cadvan suddenly stopped. _That pain belongs to another man_ , he said firmly to himself, _for now, you have your own task._

Hakka blinked in shock, then placed his fist to his chest and brow once more, bowing in reverent respect. 

“Then we will speak the native rites over her and bury her as we would kin – as a _Pilani_ , one of us.”

Cadvan, overcome, could only nod his thanks. He didn’t know what had made him tell Hakka about Maerad’s ancestry – perhaps a blind hope that Maerad, even in death, would not be without love, without kin. And it was a keen comfort to know that, if she was here, she would not be left on the rocks as carrion. 

After a quick leave-taking in which Nakk’ta fussed sternly over him, Cadvan found Imi to say his final goodbyes. It was an emotional moment – Cadvan had become as fond of the simple, steadfast mare on their travels and parting ways with her felt like parting ways with a friend. He also could not avoid the knowledge that in parting ways with one so loved by Maerad, it felt like he was losing a part of her all over again. 

_I understand your wish to no longer travel with Darsor and I_ , Cadvan said to her, _but know that you are a treasured friend, and shall be missed._

_I will not go on with you without my friend_ , Imi repeated firmly. Cadvan did not press her. He wished he, too, could refuse to go on, and find some safe retreat where he could nurse his wounds and be cared for. But such was not his path. 

_Maerad would be glad to know that you are safe and well-treated._

Imi did not respond. Soon after, Cadvan turned away from the Pilanel caravans and began to re-trace his steps along the Pass and back over the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plenty of angst here for those who like it, and a little glimpse of how Cadvan is going to be dealing with all these Feelings over the coming weeks. Who said disassociating couldn't be a useful bereavement coping strategy? Either way, this chapter was a lot of fun to write, particularly the OCs like Nakk'ta and Talia (whom we will see a little more of in later chapters). I hope you all enjoyed it! Stay tuned for more soon, but in the meantime drop a comment, a kudos, subscribe, blah blah.


	4. Chapter 4

"A hint of gold where the moon will be;  
Through the flocking clouds just a star or two;  
Leaf sounds, soft and wet and hushed,  
And oh! the crying want of you." 

– Angelina Weld Grimké

The return trip over the mountain was difficult, not least because the sheer stretches of rock he had scrambled up before he now had to shuffle down backwards. At one point he made a wrong step and found that he was on a path leading him some distance further east than he needed to be, and so was forced to go back on himself. And all the while, Cadvan was caught in deep contemplation. Something about what Hakka had said had irritated him, like an itch he could not reach. It made him uncomfortable, although he could not place why, and he replayed everything the Pilanel man had said to him over and again to no avail. By the time Cadvan finally found Darsor, he was frustrated and irritable. Around them, the light was rapidly fading from the sky. Darsor stamped in welcome. 

Cadvan quickly relayed his news, to which Darsor listened with attentive silence, ears pricked forwards. When Cadvan told of Imi’s survival, Darsor was pleased, and even expressed some approval in her decision to no longer travel with them. 

_I confess, I am indecisive about how to proceed from here, old friend_ , Cadvan said, _my Knowing tells me nothing, and I fear in my heart that Maerad – and so our quest – is lost. There will be no place in all Edil-Amarandh that is safe for us now._

To Cadvan’s surprise, Darsor snorted. 

_You have too little faith_ , Darsor said, _the young one lives._

Cadvan’s heart leapt. Darsor spoke with certainty, almost condescension, as if Cadvan had been wracked with torment over the colour of the sky. 

_Do you know this?_

_Yes_ , Darsor tossed his head proudly. 

_How?_

_I cannot say why or how – merely that I do. The young one lives._

_Can you tell where she is? Or in which direction she dwells?_

Darsor shook his head in one of his startlingly human gestures. _My heart tells me that she lives. My mind tells me she can only be in one of two places. . ._

Cadvan, startled, looked sharply at Darsor. His own mind was filled with any number of places she might be, all just as likely – or unlikely – as the next. 

_. . . She will be at Arkan-da, under the thrall of the Ice Witch, or she be continuing the quest for the Riddle through the Great Northern Planes._

Cadvan felt dizzy. He felt the truth of what Darsor said in his soul. Could it really be so simple? One of two directions? 

_If she has somehow avoided capture, then she must be heading to Muransk as we had planned_ , Cadvan said. If they made haste, they could cross the last of the Gwalhain Pass and travel the road to Muransk in less than two weeks – and, if Maerad was on foot, then surely they would catch up with her? There had been no trace of her on the road before the rockfall, but could she have clambered over it? Did she have sufficient strength and skill? However, if she had been captured, how long did she have under the tyranny of the Winterking – and thus, how long did Cadvan have to find and rescue her? Muransk and Arkan-da lay in entirely different directions – once he had chosen a path, there would be no going back. 

_Either way, we cannot remain here_ , Darsor said. He had spent all day alone on the ugly rock-face and was bored of mountains. 

_Yes. We must find a way back to the Gwalhain Pass and over the mountain. Then we may choose in which direction to pursue her._

Darsor was satisfied with this plan, so Cadvan spent the last remaining minutes of light searching out paths back to the main road, picking up the task as soon as dawn broke the next day. By mid-morning Cadvan had scouted out what he thought to be a relatively safe, horse-friendly path over the mountain, and he and Darsor set off. It was slow going – Darsor, for all his strength and endurance, was no small beast and so was heavy. Several times his hooves skidded over loose rock, and Cadvan felt certain they would both become tangled in an uncontrollable fall. But both Darsor and Cadvan kept their footing, and by nightfall they had broken back onto the main Pass through the mountains. They made camp in a bay with some firewood and Cadvan stared into the flickering flames for a long time, eventually sinking into unsettling dreams he could not remember in the morning. 

The weather remained fine, if cold, for the remainder of the journey through the Pass, allowing Cadvan and Darsor to travel swiftly. The heavy fog and hail of the last few days had all but disappeared, confirming Cadvan’s suspicions that they had been conjured. There was no doubt at all that that sorcerer to blame was Arkan, the Winterking. It was an unwelcome thought. Less than a year ago Cadvan himself had suffered greatly at the hands of an Elidhu, barely escaping with his life – and in fact, he would not have escaped had he not stumbled across Maerad and her incredible Gift. While he knew from first-hand experience the feats Maerad was capable of, he also knew that the Winterking and the Landrost were far from equal. The Landrost was little more than a useful pawn, not without power but also not without weaknesses; Arkan was another matter entirely. He was no pawn of the Nameless One, but a valuable ally, and his reach was long. He had been able to send a stormdog all the way to the Ileadh Straits, some 300 leagues from his stronghold. Cadvan dreaded to think what he would be capable of at the very seat of his power. Even Maerad – Maerad the Unpredictable – could not reckon with such a force. 

It took four days to travel through the Pass. Cadvan kept a sharp eye for any sign of Maerad but saw nothing to indicate that the Pass had been used within the last few months. Nonetheless, it was a relief to be off the mountain. No matter what happened, Cadvan would forever associate the Gwalhain Pass with that feeling of utter, black anguish when he had thought Maerad dead. His mind instinctively shied away from even the memory of such pain, and he did not look behind him until the mountains were little more than a blue-purple haze at his back. They travelled for a day alongside the Tirn River, putting a healthy distance between them and the Osidh Elanor, before making hasty camp by the side of the road. Cadvan knew they would have to make a decision soon, and once made there would be no going back. He proposed the matter to Darsor: North to Muransk, or East to Arkan-da? 

_It is like she has disappeared into the wind_ , Darsor said, sniffing at the air. 

_I would not put it past her_ , Cadvan said with a small smile, _perhaps she disappeared herself into a gust of snow, or a string of moonbeams, like Ardina?_

Darsor snorted in amusement. Now that Cadvan had landed on the resolution that Maerad was not dead, he clung to it with child-like tenacity. He remembered, as if it were a dream, the moment aboard the _White Owl_ just after they had left Throrold when he had caught Maerad bathed in moonlight, staring at the stars. His breath caught at the recollection. It was not the first time that Cadvan had noticed Maerad’s beauty; in fact, he had often noted it when they were in Thorold. There, Maerad had seemed to truly come alive. For the first time, she had seemed wild and happy and carefree, not burdened by weighty matters. But aboard the _White Owl_ it had been different. She had looked otherworldly, untouchable. And yet, Cadvan had felt the urge to do just that; to reach out and touch her, to run his hand through her moon-silvered hair and press his thumb over her cheek. 

And then everything had started to fall apart. What had happened? How had he allowed such a distance to grow between them? 

Cadvan still maintained that his words to Maerad had been just; his censure of her, while stern, was necessarily stern. Yes, she was young, but the forces that hunted them would take no account of her youth and so nor could Cadvan. He had high expectations of her, but she was not incapable, and it was imperative that she, more than anyone, understand the importance of the Balance, the importance of control. He had tried to be understanding, to be empathetic, yet there was clearly something he had missed. In the time after leaving Ossin – or even before then – Cadvan could sense a growing darkness in Maerad and had not known how to combat it, not known what she needed from him; both giving her space and offering her a place to talk met with disaster. Cadvan remembered keenly the terrible argument they had had after leaving Predan and, worst of all, the fight when they had just entered the Pass; their final conversation before the avalanche. Both had had an air of inevitability to them, and air of doom – for Maerad, thought Cadvan, had been as determined to avoid her blame as he was to expose it. And the further they travelled, the colder she had become, hardening like adamant until everything skidded off her like arrows off a wall. How she had seemed to rejoice in her coldness, carrying it around her like armour, unseeing of the danger – how it had infuriated Cadvan, urging him to shoot arrows just to see if they would penetrate, irregardless of the injury they might cause! And how it had scared him! They said such terrible things to one another, caught in the grip of guilt and pride and shame; the look on Maerad’s face when Cadvan had called her _monstrous_ ; the sting in his own chest when she had accused him of not caring for her aside from as a tool of the Light – 

_I’m just a tool of the Light. Those Bards don’t care about me. You don’t, nobody does. You just all want to use me, so that the Nameless One is destroyed._

In a flash of recollection, Cadvan remembered what had so frustrated him about his parting conversation with the Pilanel travellers. Hakka had referred to Maerad as Cadvan’s _travelling companion_. It was the wording Cadvan himself had used, but coming from his own mouth he had noticed nothing irregular. Now the phrase lingered in Cadvan’s mind, damp and flaccid, so cold and impersonal. After all he and Maerad had gone through together, after all they had survived and shared on their travels, _travelling companions_ was so distant it seemed practically offensive. And yet it was the phrase Cadvan had used without even thinking. 

_I’m just a tool of the Light. Those Bards don’t care about me. You don’t, nobody does._

At the time, Cadvan had all but ignored her words, focusing instead on her professed loneliness, which he saw as the greater issue. Loneliness he understood. He understood being surrounded by people and yet feeling apart, feeling isolated – so isolated to almost wish to truly be alone, so that the sting might lessen for being all the more true. But he had not believed for a moment that Maerad felt uncared-for. _Unloved_. How could she? When every day Cadvan felt in his heart his own love for her; felt its presence in every word he spoke, every action he performed for her; when even handing her the waterskin or a dried-up lump of travel-biscuit felt like a dangerous, irrepressible statement of love? 

_Those Bards don’t care about me, you don’t, nobody does._

_Travelling companion._

Cadvan had thought he felt grief when he believed Maerad dead. But it was this, the realisation that Maerad had felt alone and unloved in his presence, that finally broke him. For the first time since the incident, Cadvan allowed the tears to pour from his eyes, burning trails down his cheeks. He made no attempt to halt them, but urged them to fall heavier, blurring his vision and making his head ache. Darsor, noticing his friend’s outburst, knelt down to where Cadvan was hunched over, and Cadvan gratefully leaned into the horse’s firm, warm body, burying his face in Darsor’s neck. Sobs tore from Cadvan’s body; having relinquished his control, Cadvan could not reclaim it, his grief for every last cruel thing erupting from him with a force of their own. He wept for all the pain in the world – for it seemed as if all the pain in the world was _his_ pain – and for the doom it now all but certainly faced; he wept for the skeletal little children they had passed in Ettinor, and the broken woman who would inevitably fail to protect them; he wept for absent friends, lost loved ones, for every broken fate and cruelly blunted destiny, for Dernhil and Silvia and Malgorn and all those he loved who would suffer at the hands of the Dark; he wept for Imi, who had become a steadfast friend of much courage, now gone; and he wept for Hem, so far away in Turbansk learning the ways of the Light in a broken world, leagues away from love and family. Did he know if his sister was dead? Had he felt it, tumbled with her down the cliffside, and even now clutched at that empty space within him where Maerad used to be, as Cadvan still did? 

Most of all, he wept for Maerad. There was no doubt in his mind – and really, had there ever been? – that he loved her, and that, despite her fears, she had come to love him. He had seen it in a thousand tiny gestures from her, a thousand insignificant moments. He felt it during the parade at Busk, up on that balcony surrounded by noise and light and wine – had felt it every day they had resided with Ankil in his golden paradise outside Velossios, when he and Maerad had learned about the Light and the Balance together and tended to the goats and drunk wine on Ankil’s porch as the sun set over the mountains. Especially then. He wept for his own neglect of her, his own arrogance – and yet, with tears scalding his cheeks, he couldn’t think of any way to avoid where they now were. Once more, he was beset with the fatedness of his entire relationship with Maerad, and a uncounted memories flashed across his eyes, each replaced with another almost as soon as it had come, as impossible to pin down as to catch smoke in your hands, and leaving Cadvan with an insidious, sickening sense of futility, of smallness. Was this fated, too? Their separation, their suffering? And how much more would there be before the end? How much would be lost in order to win? If this parting of ways between Cadvan and Maerad was pre-destined, dictated by greater forces than Cadvan could contend with, then what assurance did he have that he would ever see Maerad again? That he would ever see her face before him, not as a memory or illusion, but flesh and blood? Oh, the things he would say to her! If she would just be alive, just be real! 

Gradually, as the night softened around them, so too did Cadvan’s tears ease, then cease. When he next blinked and looked about him, the moon had passed the zenith and Ilion was peeking over the horizon. He was still shaking, but now more from cold than emotion, and he was aware of Darsor’s head resting on his shoulder, a comforting weight. 

_We will find her_ , Darsor said. His tone was so plain, so certain, that the scud of doubt that had been swirling in Cadvan’s mind dissipated, and was instead replaced by a hot ball of resolution. Yes, they would find her. 

_We must get some rest_ , Cadvan said, _for tomorrow, we ride hard for Arkan-da._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time, but Full Of Angst. One of many moments to come when Cadvan realises his own mistakes - and earns a little humility in return!


	5. Chapter 5

It was, in the end, a very simple decision. Cadvan’s heart hoped that Maerad had found a way across the pass and to Muransk, as was planned. However, the dictates of logic outweighed the heart. It was, as Darsor had said, as if Maerad had disappeared into thin air. In this instance, ‘thin air’ meant Elidhu, and Elidhu meant Arkan-da. 

Cadvan and Darsor set off before dawn, following a straight path East with the Osidh Elanor to their right. After the emotional outburst of the night before, Cadvan awoke feeling strangely invigorated, as if he had staunched some dripping tap within him. His awareness of his environment was heightened, and he felt a thrill at finally settling on a course of action. Even Darsor sensed Cadvan’s fresh energy, and was even more eager to set off than his rider, skittering impatiently as Cadvan packed up camp. However, almost as soon as they set off, Cadvan was once more gripped by a deep sense of urgency, that time was running out, and he pushed Darsor hard. His anxiety was partially fuelled by the unnerving silence from his inner intuitive sense, his Knowing. Over the last few days, Cadvan had tried any number of things to come closer to his Knowing – meditation, special herb teas, even incantations spoken over the dinner bowl Maerad had favoured (as close to a personal item of hers that he had) – but nothing within him answered. Cadvan was so used to being in touch with his Knowing, using it as another sense to interpret the world about him, that its sudden silence felt like he was trying to listen to music with cotton stuffed in his ears. He felt dulled, or blunted, not quite as effective as usual, and so questioned himself more than he typically would. Darsor could shed no further light on whether they were on the right track, only that he felt certain Maerad was alive. Cadvan wondered if Darsor would know if Maerad were no longer alive; and secretly, jealously, Cadvan also wondered why it was Darsor – not _him_ – who had a Knowing about Maerad. It was a petty contemplation that Cadvan did not share, but which nagged at him nonetheless. 

They rode on. To the north, the Arkiadera stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a vast, unchanging landscape, a flat sea of red sedges and yellowing grasses and heathers beneath an empty sky. Come winter, the rich earthy tones would be consumed by a thick blanket of ice and snow reaching to depths of over four feet. But for now, Cadvan and Darsor were unhampered by the snow – a blessing, for it meant their progress was all the swifter. Cadvan also had fears for Darsor, who, while the strongest of beasts, was not built for snow-travel. Darsor brushed off these concerns proudly, but Cadvan was not reassured. Some foreboding told him that they would not escape the violent Zmarkan cold season. 

Even so close to the Osidh Elanor, the days in Zmarkan were short, and so Cadvan and Darsor often broke camp before the sun rose and continued a gruelling pace well into the night, using the stars as guidance when the mountains were hidden in darkness. They saw no one at all, and no beasts aside from the odd mountain-bird or ground-burrower. At night, caught between exhaustion and restlessness, Cadvan sometimes brought out his lyre, softly playing silly children’s songs or minstrel ballads until he felt calm once more. He played no Bard songs. 

_If Maerad is a captive of the Winterking we will need to find a way into his fastness_ , Cadvan said one night. They had been riding hard across the Plains for the past four days and were now less than two days from Lake Zmark. In the distance, Cadvan’s Bard-sight could detect the murky rise of the Osidh Nak on the horizon. Darsor made one of his expressive snorts, tossing his head slightly.

_We cannot just storm the Keep and demand the return of our friend_ , Darsor said dryly, _even here there is an ill scent on the air. The Ice Witch’s power ever grows._

Cadvan nodded, his brows furrowed. 

_We will have to find a way to circumvent the wards, or slip in underneath them_. The prospect was daunting. Cadvan could not imagine that the Winterking would be lax with his defences, especially if Maerad were within his grasp. And even if he could find a way through them, he imagined it would be infinitely more difficult to then escape from within. Cadvan rubbed at his face distractedly. 

_We know the Winterking rarely does his own dirty work_ , Cadvan said, _he sends his minions to bring him what he wants. Stormdogs, iriduguls, dark sorcerers. He himself is tied to Arkan-da._

_Arkan-da will be closely guarded_ , Darsor said, _the wards will be unbreakable even to you, old friend_. Again, Cadvan nodded. This, too, he knew already. Infiltrating Arkan-da would be more complicated than simply sneaking in through a back door. 

_At the very least we must replenish our supplies_ , Cadvan said, _by our former plan we would have been nearing Muransk by now, so would have the gift of their hospitality. Instead we are 150 leagues away in unwelcoming lands_. The only small blessing that had come from losing Maerad had been that, since Cadvan had carried the food rations, the remaining food no longer needed to be split between two people. However, the case was not the same for Darsor, since each horse had carried their own feed and waterbags. Lake Zmark would provide all the water Darsor needed, but that did not solve the issue of food. Furthermore, if Cadvan was to scout out Arkan-da under threat of an early winter, he would need more than a few nuts and chunks of dried meat to survive. He sighed. 

_The Jussack settlement Ursk is barely a half-day’s ride from Arkan-da_ , Cadvan said, _from what I hear it is a cruel place, but I know enough Jussack to pass by. We could lie low, gather some more supplies, and keep our ears open for mention of Maerad. If she was brought to the Winterking’s Palace, the Jussacks might know about it – they might even have been involved in her abduction._

Darsor snorted unhappily, but did not disagree with Cadvan’s plan. Cadvan understood Darsor’s reluctance. Circumstance and tyranny had made the Jussacks a hard people; sneaking in even in the semblance of one of their own would not secure them safety. They were as merciless to strangers as to enemies, and hardly less so to their own kind. Cadvan and Darsor would need to be careful. 

By evening the Osidh Nak had become a concrete shape in the skyline up ahead, and Cadvan and Darsor finally reached the western bank of Lake Zmark the following morning. The top of Lake Zmark peaked and fell in two tall spikes referred to in most Zmarkan languages as ‘The Horns’. Cadvan and Darsor settled for the midday meal at the first of the two horns. Beyond this point they strayed into Jussack territory, and so were like to start seeing people on the road. It was here that Cadvan would have to conjure the disguises for himself and Darsor. This would be an exhausting process for a number of reasons. Ursk was the largest Jussack settlement so far south and were not kind to foreigners, especially those from below-the-mountains, so Cadvan could not risk a mere glimmerspell; he would have to work a charm that could hold up against Gifted eyes. Furthermore, he suspected he and Darsor would need to reside in Ursk for several days, and so he could not conserve energy by setting a short expiration time. His only options were to either create disguises that would last, unbroken, for at least four or five days – which would take an immense amount of energy – or to cast a shorter-lasting spell and replenish it every day or so – saving energy but increasing risk of discovery. 

It was no choice. Cadvan would cast the longer spell. Safety was paramount, and Cadvan could not ignore that he, too, was hunted by both the Dark and the Light. While this was far less of an issue in Zmarkan, where the dictates of Annar and the Seven Kingdoms were held in contempt, there would still be enemies about; Cadvan being discovered in the middle of Ursk wearing his own face would be too steep a risk. 

It took some little thought to resolve on the disguises. Darsor, Cadvan decided, would become a stolen Pilanel horse, and he himself a young-ish Jussack from one of the northern tribes; this way, his strangeness would be easily explained. But it was a fine balancing act; Jussack tribes functioned within strict hierarchies of gender, age, and physical prowess. If Cadvan made himself too young he would be inviting danger, and if too old his foreignness would cause suspicion. The blue facial tattoos were also an area that required careful consideration. They served as a very important part of Jussack life, particularly to young boys coming into their manhood, as form of both clan- and self-identification; if Cadvan professed to be of Skaruban tribe but had the tattoos of an Orm Jussack he would swiftly find himself in trouble. 

In the end, he decided to change as little of his true appearance as possible in order to save time and energy; much of his face, he determined, he would cover up with a thick blond beard, and the rest would be disguised under the facial tattoos. Despite these short-cuts, the process took close to a half-hour to complete. When he was done, Cadvan surveyed his reflection in the surface of the lake with satisfaction; looking back at him was a heavily bearded young Jussack of some five-and-twenty-odd-years with ice-blue eyes and vivid blue patterns covering much of his visible skin. Cadvan stroked the beard appreciatively; it would be useful in earning the superficial respect of some of the older Jussack men. Quality and condition of facial hair, he mused, was highly regarded throughout Zmarkan. It was an amusing cross-over between the otherwise viciously opposed Pilanel and Jussack people. The strange new blue tattoos stamped around familiar old eyes were of the only northern tribe Cadvan was familiar with; Orm, up in the far north. He hoped it was remote enough that nobody in Ursk would have any connections to it. 

Darsor was a much simpler affair, although he was less than pleased with his transformation from a fine stallion of noble lineage to inelegant mountain mule. Cadvan took care to make sure his tack was also suitably lowly; he even made the saddle-blanket of Pilanel weave and crafted it splattered with blood, reinforcing that this horse was a spoil of battle. By the time he was done, Cadvan was rather pleased with his work. He rested by the lake for as long as they could afford, then mounted Darsor and continued on the last stretch to Ursk. 

Cadvan had been right to be cautious. No sooner had they passed the second horn than small Jussack settlements began to appear on the road about them. Some of them were clearly only temporary, constructed of oil-skin tents tied against propped-up lengths of wood in a cone shape. Others seemed a have been there a little longer; the sleeping quarters had a backing of wood, although the oil-skins were still predominantly used for roofing and walls, and these constructions were positioned in a circle close to a stone-ensconced fire kept permanently burning. The Jussack people of these smaller settlements were all consumed with industry; smoking meat in preparation for the winter, scaling and salting fish, weaving the brown-green reeds that grew by the lake into baskets or other functional items. All of them looked care-worn and life-troubled. When the road compelled Cadvan and Darsor to pass close by a camp, activity would suddenly cease, and hostile eyes would watch him until he had passed. More than once a cry would go up, and both men- and women-folk would reach for weapons laid nearby. Cadvan realised his young face brought its own risks, for while his obvious physical strength would deter some who might otherwise abuse him, it would also mark him as a danger to those in whom it would be better to garner trust. But it was too late to change his mind now, and so he tried to look as uninterested in the settlements as possible. 

The other people on the road gave Cadvan and Darsor a wide birth; mothers huddled their children closer to them and men cast openly aggressive glances. Cadvan remained on his guard but was wracked with sympathy. The women looked harried, their faces thin behind their immense fur-lined hoods, their lives carried on their backs. The men reminded Cadvan of the feral dogs often seen around struggling villages, many-times kicked and thus all the more aggressive for it, so they too earned no small measure of Cadvan’s pity. Fear drove even the best of men to desperate acts. To all outward appearances Cadvan was one of their own, but he was still a stranger in dangerous times. There would be no trust here. 

_Ursk ought to be visible by now_ , Cadvan said after some hours of sedate travel. The settlements around Lake Zmark had petered out, and before him Cadvan saw nothing but empty land. 

_Open your eyes_ , Darsor snorted. Cadvan blinked, frowned, and peered harder at the horizon. All he could see was the Odish Nak looming over them, an imposing wall of grey topped with white. Darsor snorted again, this time in amusement, and Cadvan saw it. There, at what seemed to be the very base of the mountain, some sharp shapes started to appear, notable only because they were more orderly than the ragged vertical rise of the mountain-face. These shapes lurked unsettlingly under Cadvan’s eye until he realised that they were buildings; constructed of mountain-stone, they blended almost imperceptibly with the Osidh Nak which protected them from the east. If he hadn’t known they were there it would have been easy to miss them. 

_I didn’t_ , Darsor said when Cadvan asked how he had seen it, _I could smell it._

Cadvan sniffed the air but could detect nothing but the usual earth-smells. Of more concern to him was the shadow that seemed like a veil over the land. Ever since they had come within sight of the Osidh Nak Cadvan had detected with increasing strength the ill weight in the wind, an evil will leaning against his mind. This was the very doorstep of the Winterking’s domain, and with each approaching step Cadvan could feel the might of his power like ice-fingers pressing against his skin. And yet there was something more. Another ill force of less ancient origin, although not without power. If Cadvan breathed deeply he could taste it, a bitter tang in the back of his throat, like scum at the bottom of a jam-pan. He had heard rumour that the Jussacks were under the thrall of a powerful dark sorcerer – this was merely confirmation. Cadvan doubted this sorcerer would be strong enough to equal a Bard – and Cadvan was no ordinary Bard – but it added another risk factor to the already dangerous venture. 

As they drew closer to the mountain, the buildings started to discern themselves from the surrounding rock, and the smell finally reached Cadvan’s nose; a thick, heavy rotting smell, like mud and fish and festering flesh. The first thing Cadvan saw of Ursk was that it was much larger than he had expected; although the flat terrain made it hard for him to estimate accurately, he guessed the settlement of Ursk could contain anywhere from two- to five-hundred buildings. Rudimentary defences circumvented it all – wooden spikes lashed together and tilted towards the road, outposts manned by two or three archers, and a prominent gatehouse. A deep trench big enough to fell a horse preceded the wooden battlements, crossable by a long wooden bridge which led directly from the road to the gatehouse. Cadvan had to admit that they were surprisingly thorough defences. As it stood, Ursk would be protected from the south and east by the Osidh Nak and the west by Lake Zmark; therefore, any invaders would be forced to approach exclusively from the great northern Plains, where they would be visible from a hundred leagues off. But what attackers were they anticipating? Who were they defending against? In Cadvan’s experience, most Zmarkans were too occupied securing their own survival to wage war on one another. 

The guards at the gate bristled at Cadvan’s approach. Darsor’s hooves clattered noisily against the pull-bridge – but, Cadvan realised, it was not a pull-bridge, for there were no ropes or chains attached, or even a railing. In the case of attack, the bridge would not be pulled up to act as another layer of protection for the gate; it would simply be burned down. This theory was confirmed when Cadvan drew up to the gatehouse, manned at the top by three soldiers, and saw the flickering tendrils of a fire-pit lurking near the archers. 

“ _Nal!_ ” one of the gate-guards stepped forwards, one hand outstretched, the other grasping his sword “ _Ouie ka taba?_ ” 

“I am Lik à Orm’baika,” Cadvan said confidently “I come to make trade.”

“Orm’baika, eh?” The guard said, circling Cadvan “We don’t see many, ahem, _kinsmen_ from Orm these days.”

This, Cadvan had counted on. The Orm Jussacks, whom Cadvan had visited only once in his lifetime, were so insular that they were practically a whole new tribe unto themselves. Such isolated clans also typically developed speech patterns and dialects apart from the mainstream speech, which Cadvan hoped would account for his accent and rather rusty Jussack. 

“What brought you so far from your mummy, little boy from Orm?” 

“I hear the north tribes are so poor that grown men of thirty still suckle at their mama’s teat,” the second guard yelled over, leaning against the gatehouse wall “and that, because of this, they never _develop_ to manhood fully, but stay small and hairless as a meat-worm. Is that true, little meat-worm?” And, to ram his point home, the guard clutched violently at his own groin with a grunt, cackling. 

Cadvan remained unmoved, shooting a bored look up and down the guard’s entire body. 

“Your interest in my health is touching,” Cadvan drawled “but for such curiosities, might I suggest your local pleasure-house? My _worm_ is not for sale.”

The second guard’s reaction was instantaneous. His eyes sparked with anger, and he draw his sword with a growl. Darsor skittered to the side – a ploy, for Darsor was too familiar with battle to be shy of a naked blade, which drew them both from the guard’s immediate reach. Cadvan placed his hand on Arnost but did not draw it. If he drew blood at the gate, infiltrating Ursk and scouting about for information on Maerad would be significantly more difficult. However, before the second guard could do anything more, the first let out a roar of laughter. 

“He’s got you there, Knut!” he cried “You’re so often at the whore-trap they ought to give you your own room there!” the archers atop the gatehouse, overhearing the commotion, were also laughing, shouting down more lewd comments to the red-faced guard. The first guard lazily waved Cadvan through, his attention refocussed on teasing his fellow soldier. 

_That was easier than I thought it would be_ , Cadvan said, _perhaps this will not be so dangerous as we had feared? I can charm or entertain information from the people of Ursk._

_You are too wise to be so naïve, old friend,_ Darsor snorted, _and even you are not so charming as that._

_You doubt my charisma?_ Cadvan feigned shock. 

_I have heard that Cadvan of Lirigon is famed for many things throughout these lands_ , Darsor said, _he is a great Bard, a great warrior, a great Reader, a great friend. But in all my journeying, never have I heard it said that Cadvan of Lirigon is a great flirt._

A bark of laughter escaped Cadvan’s lips before he could prevent it. It was the first time he had truly laughed since he and Maerad had regained the mainland from Thorold – the realisation drew Cadvan up short. And thus, it was with this strange mix of feelings in mind that he and Darsor first entered Ursk.

**Author's Note:**

> And there we have it! Next chapter will come very soon, and then i'll try to be patient and update weekly. Let me know if you like it!


End file.
